


hope is the thing with feathers

by demogorgns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU, Complicated Relationships, Family Drama, Gen, Non-Canon Relationship, Politics, Pre-Canon, Sieges, Tournaments, War, in that house arryn looks nothing like it did during the dance because i want it that way, please dont read this dont enable my rambling fantasies, the Dance of the Dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demogorgns/pseuds/demogorgns
Summary: "Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul / And sings the tune without the words / And never stops at all."Or, a story of House Arryn and House Tully during the Dance of the Dragons.





	hope is the thing with feathers

**Author's Note:**

> 'hey what if instead of writing something relevant/useful how about i expand on a character from one throwaway paragraph of a tie-in book that the author never meant anyone to care about' a novel by me

**The Vale**

**128 AC**

It was Donnel’s laughter that woke her, naturally. Myranda doubted he had slept a wink all night. It was the day of the tourney, the tourney for Althea’s nameday, the tourney that had made him giddy with excitement for a fortnight; and for a fortnight he had shrieked and run through the halls of the Gates of the Moon waving his wooden sword and challenging every servant he passed to a duel, and riding his hobby horse in a pastiche of a joust down the corridors. He wanted to be the Winged Knight, he said, and Myranda had knelt down before him and held him by the waist and assured him he would the greatest knight the Seven Kingdoms had ever known.

Myranda blinked sleep from her eyes and sat up, surveying her chamber in the weak dawn light. She listened to Donnel’s cheerful little voice fade as he continued down the hall.

Althea was up as well, admiring herself in the mirror. She smiled when she spotted Myranda sitting up behind her in the reflection.

“I must look my best today, sweet sister. Will you wake Hildy and Mandy? Get them to draw me a bath, and then help me with my gown – are you sure I should wear the blue and cream? Would the green be better? I suppose Father will want me to wear our colours, but –”

Myranda tuned her older sister out. It was far, far too early in the morning to be discussing gowns. Besides, Thea had been agonising over her gown for the tourney for the past month. High time she made up her mind, in Myranda’s opinion. She yawned, and swung her legs out from under the layers of wool and fur, jumping a little as her feet touched the cool slate floor, and moving them over to the little lamb’s wool rug. The thick wool was deliciously soft and warm.

“Randa? Are you listening?”

“Wear the blue and cream. I’ll go find Hildy.” Myranda stifled another yawn, and went into the little sitting room the girls shared. Hildy, their old nurse, was lighting the fire.

“Good morning, Lady Randa. Did you sleep well, dove?”

“Very well, thank you Hildy,” Myranda yawned once more and stretched, “Though I could have done with an hour or two more.”

“Lady Thea’ll be wanting her bath, no doubt.”

“Yes, please.”

“And one for you, too. Got to be looking you best for all those handsome young knights.”

Myranda laughed at that. “Not me, Hildy, just Thea. They’ll all be looking at her.”

 At the feast last night there had been hundreds of knights crowded into the hall, many of them young and (at least in their own minds) handsome, but Randa had found the vast majority to be arrogant preeners with no more interesting conversation than of hunt and horse and joust, topics which had never held much interest for her. They had swarmed over Althea like flies over honey-cured ham, and Myranda had passed the hours talking to the older men, the young knights’ lord fathers, who had interesting tales to tell of years long past or talk of politics and ruling. They spoke of unrest in the capital, worries brewing over the health of the King, and vicious rivalry between Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra. Myranda had listened all night with rapt attention.

Hildy chuckled, and made to stand up from the fireplace. Myranda rushed over to take her arm. “You should get Mandy to make the fires now. You need to take better care of yourself.”

Hildy had no answer for that. Despite her age, her eyes still sparkled with intelligence as she looked at Myranda. She had cared for all Lord Arryn’s children, Althea, Myranda and Donnel, since before any of them could remember; and before that had been wet nurse to Lord Arryn himself, and his sister, and their cousin the late Jeyne Arryn, the Maiden of the Vale. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be some eyes on you as well, dove. The only eyes that matter, I’ll wager.”

Myranda had to laugh once more. “You flatter me, Hildy, though not honestly, I fear. Never mind all that. Thea must have her bath, and her hair put up, and her dress put on. No time to be fussing over little old me.”

Myranda wore simple white, not wishing to outshine her older sister on this day of all days, not that she could have if she tried. Everyone agreed – Myranda was pretty enough, but she could not hold a candle to Althea. And today, on her nameday, with sapphires in her honey blonde hair and clad in sky blue silk and cream lace from Myr, Althea Arryn would outshine every lady at her nameday tourney. She smiled shyly as their lord father clasped her hands and kissed her cheek when the children were presented to him and their lady mother. Lady Ellyn of House Royce had been a famous beauty in her youth, and Althea had inherited her mother’s blonde curls and creamy complexion, as well as the blue eyes she shared with all her siblings and their father.

Seven year old Donnel, the heir to the Eyrie, had been begging for weeks to be allowed to compete, and wept and sulked when denied, but today his misery was forgotten when faced with the prospect of finally seeing a real, live tourney. Though he hated to be dressed up and scrubbed and brushed, today he had consented with little fuss. Their father ruffled his dark curls, and turned to Myranda.

Robert Arryn still retained his youthful handsome features, lined though they were now, the lines deepening as he smiled at his middle child. His white teeth broke through his neat dark beard.

“Little Randa. Your sister looks half a princess, but you dress like a simple country maid.”

“I doubt a country maid could afford this even if she saved for a lifetime,” Myranda jested, looking down at her expensive white silk, trimmed with Myrish lace.

“Still, you should have some more adornment. You’re the daughter of the Lord of all the Vale, don’t you know that?” her father smiled. He drew a silver chain from his pocket. A small silver pendant hung from it, and as it swung gently before her eyes Myranda could make out the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn picked out on its surface in pearls. “Thea has had all her nameday gifts, and even Donnel has a new doublet for today, so I thought it only fair you receive a little something too.”

Myranda smiled deeply. “Thank you, Father,” she said as he carefully placed it around her neck. He answered with his own smile, though his seemed wan and strained. “Is anything amiss, Father?”

“No, no, my child. Just…all these people around us. I haven’t had as much time as I would like to spend with you children. And I miss the safety and beauty of the Eyrie of course. Though it will be good to finally see some sport.” He laughed, though to Myranda’s ears it was a weary sound. He led them from the hall, arm in arm with her lady mother, and Myranda studied his retreating back with a sick feeling in her stomach.

For weeks, she had sense unrest in the Eyrie, in her father; whispered conversations behind closed doors, letters arriving by raven at odd hours, her father holding council with his maester into the early hours of the morning. She missed the warmth of her father’s smile, and of late, even her mother had seemed distracted from her usual pursuits of plotting to make her daughters advantageous marriages and planning dinners and balls.

The Eyrie was too remote and small to host a tourney of the size Lady Ellyn had planned, so the Lord of the Vale, his family and all his knights, servants and men-at-arms had decamped to the Gates of the Moon the week before, and for weeks before that carpenters, cooks, armourers, seamstresses and grooms had been hard at work preparing a meadow just beyond the castle as a tourney ground, the castle yard having been pronounced too poor and small to hold such a grand celebration. For this was not just Lady Althea’s nameday, all knew, but the most important opportunity for the young noblemen of the Vale of Arryn, and beyond, to vie for her hand. The eldest daughter of the Lord of the Eyrie was a prize for any man, even setting aside her beauty, charm and accomplishments. To Lady Ellyn, it was the most important event of the year.

Lords and knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms had come to compete, and their pavilions made a city of multicoloured silk that spread for miles around the tourney ground. The sound of hammers, horses, the clash of swords and shouts of men rang like bells in Myranda’s ears as she, her sister and lady mother were carried down to the tourney ground in a paladin with curtains of pale blue silk, reclining on cream velvet cushions. The day was bright, but breezy. Myranda pushed the curtain back a little, enjoying the slip of the silk in her fingers and the warm breeze that brushed her face and played with her loose curls of dark hair.

“Oh, Myranda, your _hair,”_ Lady Ellyn sighed, tucking a stray strand back into the braids at Myranda’s temple.

Her own hair, once a dark honey blonde like her eldest daughter’s, had turned steely grey in the intervening years, and she was a proud and steely woman to go with it, though she meant well when it came to her children. Myranda knew she only wanted the best for her girls, though sometimes it was a trial to bear her mother’s fussing and preening. Thankfully, she usually concentrated her efforts on Althea, who was more welcoming of them, and left Myranda to the company of her father, her brother, the maester and the Eyrie’s steward.

The paladin stopped with a bump and a servant helped Lady Ellyn and Lady Althea alight, but when Myranda leaned out someone different took her hand.

"Allow me, my lady."

"Symon!"

Ser Symon Stone was the bastard son of old Lord Redfort, his  _only_ son, and had been a squire at the Eyrie for five years before Lord Robert knighted him and sent him back to Redfort three years previously. Tall, dark-haired and handsome, he smiled at Myranda with his pale grey eyes. 

"Surprised to see me?"

"We didn't know you were competing, Ser Symon," Lady Althea said coolly. Symon smirked at her a little.

"Oh, it's  _Ser_ Symon now, is it? So polite, my lady. You have changed much in three years."

"I don't think you've changed at all," Myranda grinned, taking his arm. "You're just as serious as ever - which is to say, not at all. What are you entered in?"

"Archery, naturally. I wanted to enter the melee, but Lord Redfort didn't think it was such a good idea. He forced me into the joust instead, in which I shall no doubt acquit myself horribly."

"Why not enter the melee anyway?" Althea interrupted. She did have a habit of poking at wounds, especially Symon's. His smiled remained as he turned to look at Althea, though Myranda thought his eyes had turned cool.

"I chose to respect my lord father's wishes rather than rush recklessly to prove my courage, my lady. No doubt there'll be many other fine young idiots you can cheer for in the melee, though, never fear." Althea's expression turned sour, but before she could say anything, Myranda guided Symon away from her.

"Come, Ser Symon, be gallant and escort me to my seat?" Symon chuckled and swept a low, elaborate bow to her. 

"As you wish, your ladyship."

They walked to the stands together arm in arm. Myranda couldn't help but feel a little bit pleased as the ladies they passed watched her on Symon's arm with undisguised jealousy, but Symon only laughed again. "I do believe I'm being used here. Did you attach yourself to me to make your rivals mad with jealousy?"

"You have a rather inflated opinion of yourself that you would suspect that, Ser," Myranda teased him right back. Symon shook his head.

"They might think me handsome, but their lord fathers would be horrified if they were courted by a bastard - particularly a lazy, talentless sot of a bastard."

Myranda glanced at him sympathetically. "You abuse yourself unfairly. You have many talents - archery -"

"- Drinking, flirting, taking nothing seriously, oh yes, I'm full of talent." Myranda stopped and turned to face him.

"None of that. I see you for the first time in three years and find you drowning in self-pity! Pull yourself together, and make sure you win the archery. For me."

Symon smiled wryly. "Alright. For you, Myranda."

They had arrived at her seat. Before Symon could take his leave, Myranda laid a hand on his arm. "We all miss you at the Eyrie, Symon. All of us."

Symon arched his brow sardonically. "All of you? Even your lady mother?" Lady Ellyn was peering at the two of them suspiciously, having watched them all the way to the stands. Myranda had to laugh.

"Well, perhaps not my mother. But Father and I, and certainly Donnel...and Althea."

Symon's face dropped. "She hides it well. If you don't mind, my lady, I have to prepare for the archery."

"Yes, absolutely," Myranda said quickly. "Good luck!" she called at his retreating back, and to her relief he turned as he walked and winked at her.

Myranda was seated to the far left of her father, with Lady Ellyn at his right hand and little Donnel at his left, and Lady Althea in pride of place besides her mother, on a raised chair so all could see her. The silk canopy snapped and fluttered in the wind, as did the cream and sky blue banners which waved gaily from every post. The rail of the lord’s box was wound with creamy white roses and blue streamers, to match the crown of roses which the champion would place in Althea’s lap at the end of the joust.

Each competitor paraded in front of Lord Robert and made sure to bow in their saddles to Lady Althea, who beamed and fluttered with pleasure at all the attention. Myranda watched the show with a wry smile. Althea was born for this, and Myranda could no more begrudge her than she could be angry at a fish for swimming. For her part, she was glad that no-one was staring at _her,_ and that her mother had allowed her to wear her hair in a simple crown of braids rather than in an uncomfortable net. She relaxed into her seat, though she knew better than to slouch under her mother’s all-seeing eye.

The joust did not interest Myranda much. She liked the look of the sun glancing off the shining armour, and the beautiful horses (though she feared for them when the splinters from the lances began to fly) and she loved to see if she could identify the house of each knight from his colours before he was announced, but until the champion was declared and the identity of the lucky man who got to crown her sister the queen of love and beauty was revealed, Myranda resolved to spend much of her time looking anywhere but the lists. Everything else was so much more _interesting_ than two boorish men attempting to knock each other off their horses. Myranda was fascinated by the beautiful dresses of the ladies, the glittering jewels, the elaborate hairstyles and the whispered discussions of alliances and trade and duels and lovers from behind her in the stands.

Men kept leaning forward to speak with her father, murmuring in his ear, and every time seemed to leave Lord Robert more grave – in fact, he seemed to pay less attention to the joust than Myranda did. She strained to catch what they spoke of, but her father was too far away to hear over the wind. When it dropped, she got a snatch or two – _the vows_ and _if it comes to that,_ and Myranda wondered for a chilling second what vows had caused such a shadow to pass over her father’s face on such a happy day, and what exactly things might _come to,_ but the cheers of the crowd broke through her concentration.

She gathered very little of who was winning save from what she heard of Donnel’s cries, supporting this knight or that. At first he mostly screamed “Arryn! The Vale! The Vale!” in his high little voice for every Vale knight that entered the lists, but soon he changed his colours to whichever knight seemed to be on top; for a while, he said “Lannister!” then “Fossoway!” then “Hightower!”, but after a time he seemed to settle on one name, “Tully! Tully!”

Myranda glanced up. Sure enough, the little shield bearing the silver trout on blue and red was rising higher and higher on the tables. Myranda’s interest was piqued – the Tully knight appeared to have defeated several famous knights of storied talent in the lists to get that far. She glanced down the dais at Donnel, who was waving his little fist and shouting with triumph, and then at the lists, where a knight, a Redwyne by the clutch of grapes on his surcoat, struggled to rise after being knocked into the dirt by a still-mounted knight with a silver trout leaping from a carved splash of water on the crest of his helm.

Myranda clapped politely as the crowd erupted in cheers, but the Tully knight did not wheel his red mare around to bask in the adoration of the commons, instead trotting her towards his foe, and dismounted, offering a hand clad in lobstered steel to pull the Redwyne knight to his feet. The crowd only cheered the louder at this display of chivalry, and Myranda smiled to herself as Althea leapt to her feet, clapping frantically. _She hopes that Tully wins as much as Donnel does._ A nasty little hope that the knight would take off his helm to reveal himself ugly, fluttered in the back of her mind and made her snigger to imagine Thea’s reaction; but she caught herself and pushed it away guiltily.

But when the steward held up his arm to proclaim Tully the winner, he removed his helm to reveal a youth not much older than Myranda herself, with deep auburn hair, the colour of autumn leaves. Myranda had to admit he was nice enough to look upon – in fact, there was something in his smile when he looked up at the dais after bowing to her father that made Myranda’s heart beat a little faster despite her sensible nature. She shook her head to herself. _Don’t be so silly._ But the young knight looked straight up, past the rest of her family, and into her eyes, that lopsided smile still playing on his lips; and Myranda couldn’t help the red that crept into her cheeks, and found herself holding his gaze for as long as he stayed there. _There is something honest in those eyes._ He even looked behind to catch Myranda’s eye again as he rode from the lists, and despite her good sense she found herself smiling long after he had gone away, twisting her fingers in her lap. She only realised once the next match had started that she had not caught his first name.

Myranda tuned out once more for the next match, but Tully took the lists again for the next match, and won. And won again, two matches later, putting him in the final. Donnel was flushed with pleasure and blabbering near-senselessly with excitement, and Althea too was blushing and beaming – her time was soon coming, as whoever won this match would lay the crown of white roses in her lap quickly after. Myranda began to feel more than a twinge of jealousy when she imagined that slender, red-haired Tully boy riding up to Althea with the crown on his lance, but she pushed it down loyally.

Myranda had long known that Althea would be the successful sister. She would wed a great man and bear him many beautiful children; and Myranda, with her solid head filled with figures and strategies and politics, would die an old maid. Althea was beautiful, where Myranda was merely pretty; charming where Myranda was clever, accomplished where Myranda was helpful. There was no sense in wishing things to be different; Althea would always be more beautiful, older, more confident and better at flirting, and to weep and cause herself grief over it would do Myranda no good at all. It would _certainly_ do her no good to conceive an affection for some boy paying court to her sister; no, she would only make herself unhappy for no reason. Better to nip whatever had made her blush and smile at that young Riverlands knight in the bud. Lost in those thoughts, she was surprised to hear the trumpet announcing the start of the joust, and sat up to pay better attention.

“The final joust will be Ser Lancel of House Payne, against Ser Kermit of House Tully!”

The purple and white chequy with gold coins and the leaping silver trout on its waves of red and blue were the last two shields on the board. Ser Lancel’s armour chased in gold, his big grey stallion barded in purple and white snorting and pawing the ground. Against him, Ser Kermit Tully looked too young, too slight, too slender. Myranda’s fingers began to twist in her lap once again.

It took three turns for one knight to fall.

On the first charge, Ser Lancel’s lance glanced off Ser Kermit’s shoulder, sending the young Riverlands knight swaying in the saddle and his own lance found no mark at all, but neither knight fell. That was one point to Ser Lancel, however, and Donnel groaned dramatically and flopped down into his chair until their mother caught his eye and gave him a sharp look. Ser Kermit righted his seat quickly and gathered his reins more firmly, turning his red mare back to face his foe.

The second charge ended with both knights rocked back in the saddle and two explosions of painted wooden splinters as two lances found their marks and broke against their opponents breastplates. A cry went up from the crowd. Donnel was stood up again, Althea was on the edge of her seat, and even Lady Ellyn had leaned forward ever so slightly to get a better view, temporarily forgetting herself. Lord Robert shot his middle child a smile down the dais, which she returned shakily, trying to hide her own high emotion even as she fiddled anxiously with the pendant on the chain around her neck.

The third charge was the last, and decisively so. The two knights returned to their squires at either end of the lists to receive new lances and turned to face each other once again, couching those lances and aiming them firmly at each other’s chest. Their charge seemed to last forever. When at last they came together, the result was clear – the blue and red barded lance hit home firmly, exploding in a shower of splinters on the gold-inlaid breastplate, and the purple and white lance went wide as Ser Kermit leaned aside at the last moment, riding safely past as Ser Lancel fell with a crash into the dust. To unhorse one's opponent gave one an instant victory, and in this case the championship.

There was a moment of silence as the crowd took a breath as one and then erupted in cheers and applause. Donnel jumped up and down, bright red with excitement, until Lady Ellyn tugged his sleeve and he sat down, sulking (but still clapping). Althea leapt to her feet as well, however, along with many lords and ladies seated behind her. Lord Robert got to his feet as well, though only to quiet the crowd.

“We have our champion! Congratulations, Ser Kermit, and my thanks to every knight who displayed their skill and chivalry today in honour of my daughter. All that is left to do is crown our queen of love and beauty, and then we can all go and eat my food, as I know you all long to do.” Laughter and cheers rippled through the crowd.

Myranda looked back down at her hands and began to twist her fingers again as Ser Kermit, once more helmless with that deep auburn hair shining in the sun, dipped his new lance to take the delicate circle of white roses bound with blue satin ribbons from the cushion on which it was proffered, and began to ride along the stands. She suddenly found herself unable to look at Althea at her moment of triumph. All she tried to be aware of was her own hands, twisting the white silk of her dress in her lap, and tuned out the noise of the commons and the whispered chatter of the lords and ladies behind her. So lost in her own world was she, that she didn't realise all whispers had ceased, until a soft voice roused her from her own thoughts.

“My lady?”

Myranda looked up. Before her was a circlet of white roses, hanging from a lance. And holding the lance was a young knight with red hair shining like fire in the sun, smiling a shy lopsided smile as his red mare shifted beneath him. Myranda’s heart beat was speeding up again, quite against her will.

For a moment, she didn’t realise what was happening. Confused, she glanced down the dais, past her father’s amused expression, her mother’s shocked one, Donnel’s giggles, to Althea. Her older sister was red-faced and shiny eyed, her mouth a thin line. All around them, the crowd had lapsed into shocked silence. Myranda tore her eyes away to look back down at the young champion.

“Will you accept this crown, my lady?”

Myranda had no idea what to say. Glancing from side to side, she struggled to find what to do, until she caught her father’s eye. He motioned with his kind blue eyes, and so Myranda nodded shakily, allowing Ser Kermit to carefully dip his lance and drop the flower crown in her lap. She brushed shaking hands over the soft blooms and silken ribbons, and slowly raised it and placed it on her head.

A ragged cheer went up from the commons, who were recovering from their shock at this break of custom and were now more than happy to accept Myranda as their queen of love and beauty. The lords and ladies in the stand, however, merely clapped politely and murmured amongst themselves. Myranda tried to catch Althea’s eye, to silently apologise, but her sister stared straight ahead, glistening tracks beginning to shine on her cheeks.


End file.
